


they can’t see you like i can

by Ked



Category: Night at the Museum (Movies)
Genre: Ahk is pretty cute for an old guy, Ancient Egypt, Bitter Ahk, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Misunderstandings, Music, Not Canon Compliant, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, couldn't care less about canon let's go, seriously he's not fine who would be, someone give him a hug please, who is also dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2020-08-11 19:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20158702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ked/pseuds/Ked
Summary: "I can't believe you heard me screaming Bohemian Rhapsody and thought, 'Ah yes, this is it, the woman of my dreams.'""Well to be fair, at the time I thought all modern music was supposed to sound like that. All loud and...screechy."In which you attempt to bridge the gap between yourself and an ancient mummified pharaoh (who is very upset about being trapped in a box, mind you) with music. It goes about as well as you would expect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is what you get when I finally watch NaTM for that good Rami Malek content and then get way too invested in Ahk's character and how little canon acknowledgement there is for him and what he went through. I mean I know it's a comedy...but come on. So yeah, while this fic won't be dark or anything, Ahk's character is probably gonna be a little less plastic in this and a little more..you know...traumatized. And I'm probably going to be making up a lot of the background information on the tablet and his story so if it seems wrong it probably is and I don't care.
> 
> Anyways I'm hoping this will be a three parter (?) that way I can get it out of my head before the inspiration runs out. Also the quote from the beginning is from "Anyone Who Knows What Love Is" by Irma Thomas which was the main musical inspiration behind this story. Anyways enjoy this super expository garbage heap and I hope you have a nice day :)

_The world_

_May think I’m foolish_

_They can’t see you_

_Like I can_

_Oh but anyone_

_Who knows what love is_

_Will understand_

* * *

To say tonight has been crazy would be an understatement. Like, a massive one.

You’d already had your reservations pertaining to this job, questions such as: _“Why would such a well respected institution hire someone so underqualified for the night guard position?”_ and, _“How am I supposed to perform well when all they’ve given me is a flimsy list of directions and no actual job training?”_ And eventually, much later in the evening, _“Have I totally lost it or did that super ancient fossilized T-Rex just move?”_ And yet none of these many queries and doubts had prepared you for the actual pandemonium of what would be your first night on the job.

After what feels like hours of being chased by a colossal skeleton, chasing escapee miniatures and a devilishly mischievous monkey, then being chased again by a very aggressive and excitable group of Huns, you’re desperate for someone, anyone, to make you feel a little less crazy. Luckily, Teddy arrives just in time and helps you make sense of everything. You’ve never been much of a history freak, which seems ironic now that you seem to be living it, but if you were you’re sure Teddy would be your favorite historical figure. Authoritative and wise while somehow still being zestful and kind, you’re just about ready to follow his every word. Although after the night you’ve had, you’re pretty sure you’d take advice from Attila at this point.

So when Teddy explains the power of the tablet, and the danger it’s undead possessor wields, you stand there silently and commit his warning to heart. The screams and rattling emanating from the sarcophagus are chilling, and the last thing you want is another rouge (and possibly murderous) museum display on the loose. It’s with caution that you pass that exhibit each night after that, trying your best to ignore the gut wrenching cries that echo in your mind long after you’ve gone home for the day.

Your life seems to become more colorful after you start working at the museum. When you get the chance to converse with some of history’s most influential figures each night, there’s never a dull moment on the job. Although sometimes you wish there was a second or two to just sit back and pretend your job description is to simply watch the front door. You had little idea that first night how your job would evolve into much more than making sure to keep the exhibits in check. You become their negotiator, hashing out agreements and compromises between the feuding residents of the museum. Most recently, you had to work out a rather violent disagreement between the civil war soldiers and the KGB mannequins from the recent Cold War installation. Least to say, you aren’t even sure if that one had actually been solved or if the tensions will fester for years to come. Both groups are too silent and shifty to tell.

Although you sometimes have to lay down a firm hand with the more unruly residents, many of the museum’s figures have become close friends and confidants. Teddy is always nearby on that horse of his ready to gallop in heroically and save the day, or simply lend some wise old adage you’re not entirely convinced he came up with. You’ve built up a particularly good rapport with Jed and Octavius, which is surprising considering how much they seemed to loathe you on that first night, and have even come to an unstable truce with Attila and Co. All the while you still carefully heed Teddy’s words. Never open the sarcophagus.

But just like Pandora, you find the idea of dangerous secrets hidden in a box too alluring to resist.

Your curiosity is initially piqued quite on accident. It only takes one moment of silence to draw you in.

You’re strolling down the hallway towards the Egyptian exhibit as you perform your routine end of the night check (you’ve learned that the cavemen like to hide out in strange places), humming the latest annoyingly catchy song you heard on the radio that gets so stuck in your head it practically lives there. The honor goes to Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” this time. It’s quiet in this section of the museum, as the other exhibits hardly dare to venture here, and you allow yourself to indulge in some louder vocalizations. What can you say, the song is so goddamn catchy and the acoustics back here are phenomenal. You’re so caught up in your sweet humming that it takes you a moment to realize that something is wrong.

Just as you reach your highest crescendo, belting out that sweet cry of “mama” that Freddie Mercury does so well, you hear your voice echoing through the halls and that’s when the realization hits you. You’re standing right next to the Tomb of Ahkmenrah and you hear nothing. No vicious thumping, no spine chilling groans, no half intelligible cries for freedom, absolutely nothing at all. And the strange part is, it must’ve been making noise when you initially started down the hall. You’ve learned to tune out the terrible noises as you tiptoe silently by each night but only after you’ve made sure it’s still making them because if it’s not making them then it might not have a reason to anymore and that’s_ not good. _

So you know it must have been rattling the cage when you came up here otherwise you would’ve been too tense to ever let yourself drift off like that. No, it had been crying out as usual when you had entered the hallway. So then, why had it gone silent?

Your humming fades into nothing as you slowly backtrack, stopping to stand in front of the silent Egyptian hall. You’d enjoyed the room when you first arrived in the museum during the daylight, admiring the craftsmanship of the authentic looking hieroglyphics, the artful golden embellishments framing the famed tablet, and the noble looking jackals that stood guard at the entrance. It had felt like a true Egyptian palace. Now, beneath the stolid gaze of the two stony figures holding extra pointy spears, it felt a lot more like a tomb. One that, you told yourself reluctantly, you had to enter in order to make sure everything was okay. You would never forgive yourself if that thing got loose and someone was hurt. It is more than just a job at this point; you care for your museum friends deeply and want them to be safe. If that means standing up to an ancient mummy with enormous bodyguards, so be it.

Cautiously stepping into the dark room, you can feel a change in your surroundings. Whereas the museum generally has a chaotic atmosphere that reflects the antics of its inhabitants, the air in the tomb is ancient and still, unchanging. It’s as if every atom lies dormant, waiting for some unknown catalyst to spur it into action. The energy in this exhibit has always felt so angry and alive, but now the molecules lies in wait. For what, you’re not sure.

Hesitantly stepping closer towards the sarcophagus in the center of the room, you wince every time your foot touches the ground. No matter how carefully you tread, your boot clad steps seem to echo within the chamber. It reminds you of an old cartoon you saw where every attempt the character made to be quiet ended up creating a louder and louder noise. You’d laugh at your situation, if it wasn’t so eerie.

You halt a mere two feet away, unwilling to go any further. Whipping out your flashlight, you examine the sarcophagus from a distance. All seems well. The lid is still firmly shut and the locks seemingly unbroken and untampered with, but that doesn’t dampen the foreboding feeling in your chest. Almost unconsciously, you take a few more steps forward until you hover over the coffin.

Despite your ever present sense of danger, you can’t help but admire the way the gold paint shimmers in the dim light. The museum had made the decision a few weeks ago to remove the glass encasing the sarcophagus, revealing even more of its hypnotic beauty to your appreciative eye. 

The little you know about ancient Egypt and its culture comes from the Egyptology book you’d borrowed from the school library in the third grade, being attracted to it solely because of the shiny gold cover depicting the Eye of Horus. You felt like you were a little kid again, drawn in like a moth to a flame by shiny objects. Normally, visitors would have to maintain a couple feet of distance from the sarcophagus, but you were standing directly over it now with little regard for museum protocol. Or your own safety, for that matter.

Impulsively, you lay your hand gently over the lid, eager to feel the intricate carvings beneath your fingertips. You barely notice the breathy hum of awe that escapes your throat.

With an abruptness that makes you jump sky high, a loud thud causes the lid to rattle violently beneath your hand. Squeaking with surprise, you drop your flashlight and immediately make a break for the entrance. Peeling down the hallway, you don't even bother to look back as those terrible sounds begin to chase you again. One thing’s for sure; it’s still in there. 

Agonized wails of anger and pain echo down each corridor, rattling the walls with their sheer force. The anguish seeded deep within his screams sound within your ears that day long after you’ve left the museum.

After you’ve taken a few days to collect yourself, pointedly avoiding that part of the museum, you reluctantly find yourself returning after receiving several complaints of even louder screaming than before. You find yourself entering what you can only describe as a tenuous agreement with the resident mummy as you employ a new strategy. You’re not sure it will work, and you’re terrified to try at risk of catastrophic failure, but if you can manage to calm the monster down maybe you’ll stop hearing its torment banging around in your head.

So now, whenever you take your nightly stroll, you hum whatever comes to mind. And sure enough, like clockwork, the mummy’s shouts fade into placated silence. You work your way through countless different genres and songs, all the way from “Back in Black” to “Colors of the Wind”. Eventually you progress to full fledged singing, enjoying the way your voice carries in the open space as you mimic a performance. It feels nice to be able to let loose away from the rambunctious antics of the museum’s occupance. It’s good to have a moment or two away from the endless chaos that can only be caused by such a colorful array of characters. You’re free to belt out whatever tune embodies your emotional state to absolutely no one, save for your silent audience of one. 

It doesn’t escape you that this is the most open you’ve been around another person (can you even call a centuries old corpse that?) in your entire life. So in a sense, an ancient dried up pharaoh knows you better than anyone else in your life. Strange.

You like to think that maybe, just maybe, the mummy appreciates your terrible singing somehow. Why else would it silence its ages long battle for freedom at the sound of your voice? It must be so dark and quiet, trapped alone in that box.

Growing more comfortable with your new sanctuary within the museum, you allow yourself to release physical energy as well, tapping a beat on whatever surface you can find. It feels good to add a little percussion into the mix. The loss of inhibitions reminds you of how stifled you feel in everyday life, even at your job sometimes, in fact. You often feel confined, claustrophobic in your own body. The Egyptian exhibit, the very room that once stood as a warning to you, becomes your refuge.

It’s one day as you’re humming along sweetly to an old Irma Thomas song that you discover your mummy is no longer content to just listen along silently. You almost stutter in surprise as, after you’ve finished the first verse, you hear a tapping begin to follow along with the rhythm of the song. 

Close as you are to faltering or fleeing, you manage to do neither and stand your ground. Your voice quivers slightly, but you manage to keep time with the gentle taps against the lid of the sarcophagus. They’re so unlike anything else you’ve ever heard from it because they’re not a violent thrashing nor are they an impassive state of silence. They are a gentle attempt to communicate through your musical language and it’s the first time you’re reminded that this corpse used to be a human and in some ways he still is.

Your humming draws to a close, stray lyrics mumbled every so often, and so does his tapping. There’s something left unspoken in the silence that follows, a sort of understanding that resonates in the air long after your voice has stopped bouncing in the corners of the room.

All this time you’ve thought of him as a creature beyond understanding, an animal acting on the base instinct of survival, an _ it _. That’s what Teddy had lead you to believe after all. But in this moment you recognize what you couldn’t see, or more accurately hear, before. There is no creature lying inside the tomb. Only a human being who wants to be set free. And in that way, you think, he’s a lot like you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo this chapter ended up being way more angsty than I anticipated? Honestly its just more exposition, but I felt it was needed to set up where he is right now. That being said, I'm actually not very happy with how it turned out and may come back and edit it later. We'll see....
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos and kind comments. They seriously make my entire week. Thank you to those who have been waiting patiently for an update. I will try to update as quickly as possible, but I'm pretty busy so we'll see. Hopefully the next chapter will be up sometime in October. Anyways, thank you for reading and feel free to leave a comment ;)

_Ruler of my heart_

_Driver of my soul_

_Where can you be?_

_I wait patiently_

_My heart cries out_

_Pain inside_

_Where can you be?_

* * *

  


There are a multitude of thoughts that run through his head the first time he opens his eyes and inhales the stale, musty air that encases him. Many of them stem from confusion: What is he doing here? Where is here? Why can’t he move? 

His first instinct, no matter how unfitting of his title as Pharaoh, is to panic. He tries to cry out for his servants, parents, brother, _ anyone _ to come release him. To his horror, his voice is weak and hoarse, barely coming out as little more than a whisper. All he hears is his own pitiful wheezing and the deafening silence all around him. His limbs feel heavy and cramped, unable to move or even flinch. His entire body feels constricted as if he’s encased in stone.

He sends desperate prayers to the gods, begging them for his soul, but has no idea if they’re even listening. The terrible thought strikes him that maybe Anubis has already passed his judgment, that Ammit has devoured his unworthy soul and this is his eternal punishment. He tries to scream out into the darkness again, fearing that he truly is trapped forever without a voice or agency.

His first night under the tablet’s power is hell. 

The second, third, and fourth are no better, although they do manage to provide him with tentative answers (or more questions to be accurate). When he wakes each night, it's to the sound of unintelligible voices surrounding him. The sounds are coherent and patterned enough to be a language, but one he does not recognize and can hardly hope to decipher. Are these the voices of the gods? Or simply other souls damned to an eternity in the abyss?

He can’t possibly keep track of time in this never-ending darkness. A single moment of silence stretches into eons of loneliness. His interaction with the world is restricted to the incoherent voices, even his very ability to touch is halted by some invisible barrier. All he has is his deteriorating mind and the company of beings he cannot comprehend.

Drifting in an out of consciousness, he can’t identify how long it takes for his savior to arrive. All he knows is that he awakens to the void one night, and an entirely different world the next.

He opens his eyes to the color of sand stretching endlessly before him. His entire vision is consumed by the color, much in the same way darkness had covered him before. The sight is confusing until he feels the brush of his eyelashes against something fabric-like. He realizes belatedly after a few confused blinks that his face is wrapped in some sort of cloth. His breathing picks up again until it’s escaping his throat in hoarse wheezes. There are about a million thoughts swarming his brain and absolutely none of them make sense.

It is then that he hears those jumbled noises again, the low murmuring of a voice nearby only clearer this time. His arm twitches, and he believes that if he could _ just reach out and touch- _

The linen is slowly peeled off his face, and his very first breath of clean air is stolen by a gasp utter surprise.

He will later come to understand many things about his situation. He will learn that he is currently located at Cambridge, a learning institution in a city he’s never heard of. He’ll learn that the elderly gentleman staring down at him with abject fascination is Samuel Ross, the head of the Egyptology department. He’ll learn that his continued existence is owed to the mechanics of an ancient tablet that confuses the professor immensely. He’ll learn that he’s been dead for over a thousand years.

But at the moment all he can do is stare up at the man who he expected to be a god come to devour his soul in fear and awe, and then promptly pass out. 

It takes a couple of nights for him to regain mobility, a few more to regain the ability of speech, and far longer to begin accurately communicating with Samuel.

‘_ Just call me Sam, and I’ll call you Ahk, alright your highness?’ _

Sam is kind, if not a bit eccentric and scatterbrained. He almost wishes he could have been a better friend to him, back then. He’d been rather closed off at the time, too caught up in his own depression and fear to truly connect with the man. He suspects that Sam’s eagerness to get to know him mostly stemmed from the idea of discovery and education anyways. Although Sam seemed to try to understand his feelings and respect them, he never could quite stop looking at him as a research opportunity. Answering each barrage of questions about his old life night after night only resurfaced many of the memories that he’d tried to forget.

Never again would he walk through the gardens with his mother, chatting about everything from his royal duties to how loud his father was snoring in bed. Never again would he look into his father’s eyes and see the pride there, the absolute contentment that accompanies seeing one’s progeny find success. He wouldn’t even get to bicker with his brother again, as frustrating as their interactions had always been.

No, he would never be able to see his family or his home again because they were all gone, ancient relics swept away by the sands of time. And here he was, a missing piece from an ancient time scrambling to fit into a new millennium. Was there even a point in trying? At least he was free to wander the university on his own as he tried to figure everything out.

Every night his stomach roils with unease as Samuel ushers him back into his tomb and slides the lid over him, eyes widening with barely concealed fear as the last sliver of light is blocked from view. The professor claims it’s for his safety, that it’s best he remains out of sight during the day. He never believes him. The old man is simply too afraid to lose his little specimen. He’s purposely denying him his freedom. _ Him, _ a _ king. _

One night, when he can’t bear the thought of being enclosed in that tomb again, he decides to escape the university. He aches to watch the golden sunrise, to see something other than these bleak halls. So he climbs up onto the roof, desperate to gaze upon the familiar night sky. And indeed, it is familiar. Even though the world has changed so much, with those loud steaming machines they call automobiles and candles that require no flame, the constellations burn as brightly as ever. Nut still sits among the stars, caressing the Earth in her loving embrace. He is eager to see how Ra will greet the world with his blazing light.

But as the sun rises above the crowded city horizon, something feels wrong. He looks down at his arm, a black, ashen thing that flakes and crumbles like papyrus. It falls limply to his side as he stares at the muted colors of dawn, his throat drier than the desert. There is no need to panic at the sight for it is understanding, not confusion, that dawns on him now. 

The revelation hits that he never escaped that dark place, the everlasting punishment he’d feared so desperately. This is the punishment, this half-life he’d been so foolish to think was “gifted” to him. He feels the rot overtake him before his eyes even close. 

He doesn’t speak for days after that. In fact, he refuses to leave his tomb at all. Samuel opens the lid for him each night, telling him he’s more than welcome to join him for tea in his office. But he simply shifts onto his side, pressing his gaunt cheek against the flat surface beneath him. Samuel gives as much sympathy as he can, but he knows that he’s gone to a place he can’t reach. Their tentative friendship crumbles into nothing. 

He isn’t sure exactly what happened after that brief period. If he had to make an educated guess, he’d attribute it to all those budget cuts Samuel had spoken of threatening his position. Apparently, as he’d put it, the “egyptology craze” was passing and the university wanted to focus its funds on more promising ventures. He’d never thought about what this could mean for him. He’d been too busy seeing himself as a person and not university property. But that first night he wakes up and the lid isn’t open, he wishes he had listened. 

He calls out for Samuel, angry and frightened all at once. When he gets no response he continues, reviling him in every curse he knows in his native tongue. He knows quite a lot.

He’s not sure how many nights of this pass before the realization hits him. He’s alone. Again. 

As much as he wants to curl into himself and block everything out he continues to call out each night, less because of hope and more because he doesn’t want to lose his voice again. It’s the last thing he has.

Some indeterminable amount of time later, he hears muffled voices outside. They lilt in a tone unfamiliar to him, but he picks out enough bits and pieces to know they’re speaking English. Hope springs in his chest, although he tries to repress it. Banging fervently on the lid, he begs for help.

The voices go silent for a while as he continues to rattle away. He pauses for a moment, wondering if they have already left him.

Heavy silence hangs in the air until one of them speaks up.

“Well I don’t like the sound of that one bit.”

“Maybe it’s some sort of evil curse?”

He growls in frustration, slamming the lid with the side of his fist.

“Yes, I am definitely sensing evil here. Not sure Mr. Pharaoh here is so friendly.”

“You’re not tricking us, your majesty! I’ve seen the flicks and I know exactly how this ends.”

“C’mon, we’d better get back to the others. We’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

Their retreating footsteps echo through wherever he’s been placed. In sheer desperation, he cries out in his native tongue once more and slams against the sarcophagus. He claws and kicks and punches until his joints are sore and his fingers are bloody. He calls and calls until his voice is a scratchy whisper and even then he still yells with the desperate hope that they will return.

They don’t.

Over the years, centuries, eons he remains trapped that desperate hope crumbles to desolation, then firey rage burns the ashes. He can hear them outside, living their lives in mockery of his imprisonment. They know of his suffering, but do nothing to stop it. They actively keep him locked away for reasons he can’t comprehend. All he can understand is the aching fear inside himself that drives him to rage. All he wants is to burn it all away.

By the time solace arrives, it’s been ages. No one even comes through anymore, not even to taunt him. Sometimes he screams just to hear a sound that isn’t silence. He hates that sense swallowing silence with a passion.

He’s become so used to the silence that he almost misses the light tap of feet nearby. The sound catches him so off guard that he’s speechless, every muscle in his body seizing in a mixture of surprise and excitement. Will they speak? He prays to hear a voice, even if it cries out in fear or curses his name. What would it feel like to hear his name spoken aloud once more, to be acknowledged by another human being? An absent part of his mind supplies _ rapture. _

Sure enough, the faint sound of music sweeps through the air. The single voice cuts through the silence like a knife, lilting and swaying like the songbirds his subjects brought from foreign countries. It doesn’t hold a candle to the concerts he’s attended in his life, the enchanting spectacle of singers trained to serenade since before they could speak. The singer’s tone is high pitched and strained, clearly a struggle for them to maintain. Really, he’d say this person is only _ attempting _to sing, more than anything.

It’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“Mama, ooh. I don’t wanna die! Sometimes wish I’d never been born at all.”

To his dismay, the voice trails off in a series of vocalizations that resemble a noise made by an out of tune instrument more than lyrics. Slowly, the sounds fade to nothing and he feels the acute sense that something has changed within his barren soul. He’s unsure if this is good or bad.

It’s so completely silent that he can hear the quiet, trembling breaths of this unknown person as light footsteps near him. Whether it’s his own imagination or actual supernatural occurrence, his skin prickles with electricity. He can hardly conjure up that familiar anger when he feels as if his heart is about to burst from his chest from dreadful excitement.

And he doesn’t know how he feels it, maybe through some power granted to him by the tablet, maybe through intuition, but he senses their presence directly above him. Close enough to reach out and touch.

Before he can think twice, his palm slaps flat against the lid as it searches for contact in the dark. No sooner does he do this than a quiet gasp of fear releases and he hears the sound of feet running away. He slams his hand against the lid twice more, letting out a broken wail. Angry tears flood his eyes as he growls and slams with his fists, a blind fit of rage overtaking him. He hasn’t even _ done _ anything and yet he’s seen as a monster. He’s sent the one person to visit him in years fleeing. 

The depression he’d settled into fades, quickly replaced by that violent mania that tore through him so often. He carries on like that for days, crying out in furious resentment until he’s sure anyone within a kilometer’s radius can hear him. If he will never be granted a moment of peace then neither will they.

Some indeterminate length of time later, the being returns. Although his temper has been somewhat subdued, he still cries out when the sound of footfalls reach his ears. But those screams fade into shocked silence when he hears it: a sinuous tune that unravels itself along the length of his spine. He doesn’t realize that he’s been listening in rapt silence until the sound begins to fade as the distance widens. He’ll later liken the experience to watching a fleeting sunset that he knows can’t last forever. As soon as you’ve begun to enjoy it has settled beneath the horizon and left you in darkness. But luckily for him, the sun rises in the morning as well.

The music returns every day, a different melody each time. Sometimes he hears fast and energetic singing with powerful crescendos and belting high notes that tremble with effort and strain. Other days, breathy sighs intermixed with deep melancholy low notes that vibrate deep within his bones. He begins to sense patterns in mood. There are often long stretches of sad songs with a few happier tunes dispersed within. He wonders what the frown that the voice betrays looks like. Is it gentle and disconcerted? Does it cut sharply into the cheeks, defining the features with the sharp crease of muscle? Is it accompanied by a set of swollen, watering eyes? 

He tries not to think about how it would feel to wipe that frown away, to smooth away the sadness embedded so deep within the voice. He likes to envision that maybe some days when the tune is happier that there is a smile there, stretched so wide it distracts from every other feature. No, he never thinks about what a beautiful sight it would be.

He doesn’t realize it when he starts tapping along to the melodies. All he knows is that he’s been still for too long and that he’s heard this song before. He taps his fingertips gently against the lid, following along to a rhythm he’s practically memorized. By the time he recognizes the wordless accompaniment he’s created, the singer is retreating once again. He wonders if they know just how much he longs for them to stay.

There is no song the next day but he doesn’t lash out blindly in retaliation. He lies in silence, paralyzed by the crippling fear that he has been abandoned again. The next night is equally silent and he finds himself with his palms pressed against the lid, pushing upwards with all the force he can muster. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t budge. This time, the dam breaks and the static energy floods his body. He cries out again that night as loudly as before, only this time not in anger. As the curse drags him back under, he wonders if he is truly doomed to this cycle of abandonment. Of beginning to form a connection only to get shoved back into the dark like a forgotten toy.

On the last night of what he’ll later come to recognize as his final days as a prisoner, he manages to hum a crackling tune just under his breath. It’s hoarse and trapped in the back of his throat but for a split second he doesn’t feel so alone. He tells himself that he’ll continue to sing it, sing it until he’s loud enough to be heard through the darkness. Loud enough to make the faceless singer return to him. Loud enough that they’ll never leave him alone again.

And for once in what’s been his life for the past eternity, the tiny modicum of hope building inside him is vindicated. Because the very next day, the stranger returns with more for him than a song.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo first of all I am EXTREMELY sorry for the long wait for this chapter. My life has been extremely stressful and hectic lately so I really only got the chance to work on this chapter in small chunks over the last couple months. Thank you to everyone who has been so patient and left such sweet comments. You guys are truly amazing and honestly it’s reading your kind words that gives me motivation to work on a chapter. I can’t promise updates will always be quick, but it is my goal to completely finish the story that I have planned.
> 
> All that being said, I’m really excited for y’all to read this chapter! My laptop has not been working so it was written/edited/posted from my phone so there may be more typos than usual or strange formatting. I will try to fix those as soon as I can. Hope you enjoy and hopefully the next update will come soon!

  
  


_Do you need me, like I need you?_

_ Look at me, I'm crying from holding you _

_ Make me forget the pain that you caused _

_ Understanding is a great thing _

_ If it comes from the heart _

  
  


* * *

Two little boys giggle as they walk past you, each one holding in their grubby fingers one of those icky bug lollipops that can be found in just about any museum gift shop. Your hands fidget with the oblong pendant attached to your necklace as you spot their parents trailing behind, fond expressions and tightly intertwined hands. It’s hard to identify the heavy of emotion weighing down on your chest . All you can tell is that it, whatever it is, it’s making you feel sick to your stomach. Considering that your shift has barely started and you’re expected to be here all night, that is  _ no bueno. _

You glance over to the stoic face of a frozen Sacagawea. Maybe you’re simply projecting, but her face seems to say ‘ _ Come on girl, get it together!’.  _ And it’s not too far off from the truth. If she was awake right now she’d definitely be saying that, albeit not in those exact words. She was the best at giving succinct advice that could penetrate even your most stubborn moods.

Straightening up from your casual recline against the wall, you check your watch with feigned nonchalance. It’s 5 minutes to 7:00, meaning that you have only a little while before you lock up and around half and hour before you begin your “museum wrangler” duties for the night. Another hour of peace before you’re pulling out your hair once more.

If someone were to ask you how you enjoyed your job, you’d probably struggle to give them the right impression. It’s not that you hated it, far from that actually. However, it would be a lie to say it didn’t have its faults. A job involving being alone all night away from prying eyes and expectations had sounded like heaven when you initially saw the job listing. Little had you known how things would turn out to be entirely opposite. Now between your daily responsibilities and your nightly babysitting duties there was no time for rest. And you  _ really  _ need some after today. 

It had all started off wrong when you’d dragged yourself out of your disheveled bed early that morning to get some errands done. You generally try to make a point of never being up before 1 pm, considering you work a night job, but unfortunately you never really could catch a break from adulting. Still drowsy and yawning, you made the fatal mistake of tripping over a discarded thermos carelessly strewn on the ground. The sharp twinge of pain in your ankle had been the first indication that your mood would only plummet as the day went on. After scrambling to make yourself somewhat presentable, you limped down the apartment hallway and had the pleasure of passing your neighbor and her boyfriend in a very  _ friendly _ position against the wall. It was hard to tell from the brief glance you’d given them where she ended and he began. The rest of the day had sapped away all your remaining energy. Long line at the bank, crabby lady at the DMV, creepy guy on the subway, all of them served to remind you just how much life sucked. 

And then, because the universe seemed to think that it would like nothing more than to torment you, you saw  _ him.  _

It’s not like you never thought you’d see your ex again. You live in the same city, after all. It was likely, no, certain to happen eventually. You just never thought it would be so soon. 

He looked good, as much as you were loathe to admit. With those beautiful brown eyes and that confident aura, it wasn’t hard to remember why you’d fallen for him in the first place. He made it easy, with those relaxed smiles and easygoing laughter. Typical of his personality, he was chatting animatedly with the old woman behind the deli counter; probably telling her his classic story about the time his dad bought out an entire deli for a family get-together. His extended family happened to be very large. A tall woman with a beautiful smile stood next to him like she was born to be there, interjecting every once in a while with a natural chuckle. It made you feel starkly out of place, standing there alone in your sweatpants with a bunch of bananas cradled to your chest like a life preserver.

He saw you- _ of course he did _ -and immediately waved with a smile. He asked how you were doing, just like you knew he would. When you returned the sentiment he told you he was fine, also something you knew he would say. You knew he would put his hand on your shoulder as he introduced her and you knew she would plaster a smile across her face and shake your hand and you knew he would say ‘ _ Oh it’s been so long we really should catch up but we’re late for dinner and we have to go and-’  _ You knew.

That had been a punch in the gut you felt all the way to work. Even as you walk through the dwindling museum crowd, you can feel it still. Is it normal to want to escape a feeling this badly? Every time you close your eyes you see him there, still laughing and smiling like nothing’s wrong. Like it never really mattered. The thought of it makes you miserable. You slam the doors behind the last exiting guests with a thud.

But why should you be the miserable one? You can feel the steam beginning to roll off you as you watch the last visitors walk out the museum doors. Why should you be the one who lies awake thinking about what could’ve been? You throw the bone for Rexy, a little harder than you mean to. Why should you be in pain when he’s clearly moved on? You almost trample Jedediah as you stomp down the hallway. Why should you still care, when he clearly never extended the same courtesy? You burst into the empty corridor with anger, harsh breaths causing your entire body to heave. 

Now simmering with anger, it takes you a moment to realize where your feet have unconsciously taken you. You’ve been here countless times before when you needed some peace and quiet. The quiet hallway houses no exhibits, only several paintings depicting history. It also happens to lead to the exhibit of a certain mouthy Pharoah who is being blessedly silent tonight.

‘ _ Good,’  _ you think to yourself, ‘ _ If he was shrieking again I might actually square up with him this time.”  _

You take some time to meander down the hallway, letting the swell of sadness and anger slowly drain out of you. You sniff loudly and wipe your knuckles across your face, only now noticing the tears that had pooled there. You giggle a little when you realize that being here in a remote hallway with tears streaming down your face is not exactly in your job description. In fact, you’d probably get fired if your employer knew this was how you actually spend your nights. The thought made you laugh even harder, and by the time you reached the end of the hallway you were almost sobbing with the force of it. Tears prick your eyes again as you double over, struggling for breath at the thought of your boss finding the security guard giggling in the corner after the museum has been robbed. 

A distant voice told you to cut it out before you actually entered some sort of mental breakdown, but you were too far gone to care. It felt good to the point of pain and you had no intention of stopping. 

Throwing out what almost could’ve been considered a drunken slur, you belt, “So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?!” 

You swing around the corner into the Egyptian exhibit, all thoughts of caution and pride gone. After all, there is no one there to hear you. No one around to shoot you that condescending smile he wears so well.

“So you think you can love me and leave me to die?!” You crash back into it, swinging your air guitar down low as you flip your hair. 

You’re facing one of the jackal guards now, staring up at him as if he’s responsible for every wrong ever committed against you.

“Ooooh baby! Can’t do this to me baby! Just gotta get out, just gotta get right out of here!”

The guard remains as stoic and statuesque as ever, but you’d like to think you put him in his place as you saunter away towards the room’s centerpiece. The rapidly spinning gears in your mind begin to wind down as you eye that silent sarcophagus, the gold paint shining in the light. You’re not sure you’ll ever get over just how talented the ancient Egyptian craftsmen were. If you had to be dead someday, at least they knew how to do it in style. 

You can hear your heart thrumming in your ears as your steps slow. A heated flush rises to your cheeks as you suddenly remember your silent audience of one. Well, you might as well finish, if not for your sake than for his. You sigh into it like you’re sinking into a pile of blankets.

“Nothing really matters, anyone can see.”

You place a hand delicately over the painted face, intentionally delicate with such an ancient piece of art.

“Nothing really matters...to me.”

It’s overwhelmingly silent now without the crashing backdrop of your air guitar. The stylistic room feels more like a chasm now, echoing with all the thoughts in your mind that go unsaid. Your fingers slowly slip away from the lid to hang limp at your side. Your eyes trail down the sarcophagus all the way to the lock on the side. Your ring finger twitches slightly against your thigh before you take a small step back.

“Is it lonely?” You blurt out before even thinking to stop yourself. Your stomach clenches with uncertainty, but you can’t stop the words from spilling out of your mouth.

“Being trapped in the dark like that, I mean. What am I saying, of course it is, I-“ You cut yourself off, taking a deep breath to calm the nerves bouncing around under your skin.

“And even if it’s not lonely...well it must be scary. And it probably smells like BO. Or do you even sweat? Do the undead even still have functioning sweat glands? There’s one question they don’t answer in health class...I’m ranting aren’t I?”

The last person you’d accidentally rambled on to like this had been a cute brown eyed boy you’d met in the library. And though he’d found it endearing at the time, you’re unsure an ancient pharaoh will find it equally as attractive.  _ He’s probably used to cutting off the tongues of people who even dare speak to him wrong. _

You know it would be smart to stop now before you embarrass yourself further, but his continued silence is emboldening. You figure that he’d just let the winds of hell loose again if he really wanted you to stop.

“Is that why you scream all the time? Because you’re scared?” You pause for a moment to sink down against the wall until you’re leaned back against it with your knees pulled to your chest.

“Or is it loneliness? Sometimes that makes me wanna scream too. People just disappear and you’re left scrambling to fill the hole they made.”

Your fingers trace lightly across your arms as your wrap yourself in an embrace. Your eyes close as you lean back and let that consuming loneliness empty you out.

“You know what he said my problem was?” You sniffed loudly. “He said I just kept everything locked away. That I was always pretending to be someone I wasn’t. I guess I just didn’t want him to see how ugly I truly was…deep down.”

Your fists clench as you grip the soft flesh of your thighs

“I just wish I could burn it all away. Every stupid memory that makes me smile for two split seconds before it hurts. God I hate that feeling.”

You glance over at the silent sarcophagus, absently wiping at your nose with the back of your hand.

“Maybe that’s why you’re so mad all the time. I’d be pretty mad too if I downgraded from living in a palace to a box.” The humor of your joke is lost to the bitter tone fraying the edges of your voice.

You sit quietly for a moment, allowing your muscles to slowly relax as. Pushing yourself to your feet, you begin to advance towards the object of your attention. You stop just short of it, your extended fingers barely brushing the ornate carvings.

“Maybe I  _ do  _ lock things up.” You take a shuddering breath. “But not anymore. Maybe it’s time we both saw the light, eh?”

Your fingers go to the latch, halting as soon as you touch the cold metal.

Warning signals flash in your mind, but the residual adrenaline from your mini pep talk overcomes any second thoughts. You take a deep breath before undoing the latches, the loud click echoing between your ears. Your hands still on top of the locks as if only now realizing what they’ve done. 

For an eternity, time stands still. The only sensation your body processes is the irregular staccato of your heart beneath your ribs. A car could have crashed into you at that moment and there would be no reaction. It is both the most turbulent moment of your life and the calmest. Simultaneously the storm and the eye, the end and the beginning, and about a million more dramatic things.

Then the lid violently swings open.

Too much happens at once. You tense with fear as the lid slams open, an earthy brown dust dispersing from inside. A low growl rumbles through the room as it begins to shake. You look upwards, only to brush the tip of your nose against the pointy tip of a spear. Eyes traveling up the long handle, you find one of the jackal headed guards on the other side,

Yelping in surprise, you immediately stumble backwards, landing hard on your butt. Supporting your upper body on your elbows, you perform some sort of pseudo crab walk backwards until your back thumps against the wall. You wince in pain as your head collides with the unyielding surface. You jerk your head downwards to rub a soothing hand over the lump certain to be forming. Glancing up between the strands of hair obscuring your vision, your eyes widen until they’re practically bulging.

The once inanimate jackal guards that stood watch so vigilantly over the tomb have apparently decided to start taking their duties a little more seriously and have found that they are  _ not happy _ with your intrusion. Both stalk slowly towards your cowering form, spears poised to impale you at any moment. Any smarter person would take advantage of their glacial place and run to safety. But the emotional rollercoaster you’ve just gotten off of has exhausted you, and all you can do is scrunch your eyes shut and wonder just how confused everyone will be when they find your body. You’ve always wanted to be on tv, albeit not as a murder segment on the local news.

Through the hysteric, almost comical thoughts racing through your head, you nearly fail to process a deep voice barking out words in a language you only vaguely recognize.

There is a clink of metal against tile then nothing but the sound or your heavy breathing. No, not only your panicked breaths but another set as well. Slowly removing the hands you’d unconsciously raised to shield your head, you open one eye to cautiously peek around.

In front of you both guards have seemingly reverted back to their inanimate state. They stand as regally as ever, arms crossed stiffly over the spears they’d just been preparing to shish kebab you with. Slowly unfolding from your protective ball, you glance between the guards and freeze at the sight before you.

Sitting up perfectly straight in the now open sarcophagus is none other than a real life mummy.

It takes you a moment to remember to be afraid. It’s somewhat fascinating to see a human body embalmed likes that. Covered from head to toe in strips of brown, decaying cloth, it’s easy to forget that this was ever a human with a name or identity. But then again, that’s why you suppose the Egyptians were so obsessed with taking earthly possessions to the afterlife. How else do you keep your humanity when you’re decaying into dirt?

You snap out of it when the mummy lets out a low groan. A jolt of energy races up your spine as you quickly scramble to your feet. Although common sense should tell you otherwise, Teddy’s tales of an evil pharaoh with violent tendencies are flashing through your head and telling you to get out of there. The only problem is that he’s between you and the exit.

There is no thought put into your escape, only blind panic. Just as he’s swinging his legs over the side you attempt to dash around him. However, tired and clumsy as you are, you don’t make it very far before stumbling over your own feet. Just as you’re about to fall face first onto the floor, a hand seizes your bicep. 

You jerk forward against its hold before falling backwards, stabilized by the firm grip. Your head whips towards it and you’re caught in a staring contest with someone whose eyes you can't even see. All is quiet as the mummy holds you there, and the fact that you can't read his expression to figure out if he’s plotting your death makes you tense. 

You don’t dare to so much as flinch when the mummy’s free hand begins to raise towards your face. Your eyes follow that approaching hand, fixated on the tan patch of skin revealed just at the wrist, until the tips of its fingers settle over your cheek. They rest there gently, not pressing bruises into your skin but hovering like a spirit with intent, unfinished business. You expect each point where the pads of its fingers meet your skin to pierce into you like icicles, but its touch is surprisingly warm. Despite the ragged cloth covering the entire hand, you can feel the heat seeping into your own skin. You reach out hesitantly then, emboldened by the warmth fluttering in your chest but frightened by how near its thumb rests to your pulse point. Every rhythmic thump of your heart is met by that unbearable pressure.

The mummy doesn’t move a muscle as your fingers reach the base of his neck, snagging the strip of cloth you believe will unravel his face. You begin to peel back the ancient layers of cloth, taking care not to disturb the hand that still rests against your face. It tightens for a moment and you almost take it as a threat, but the way it trembles suggests its only holding on tighter to stabilize itself. A tan collarbone appears from beneath the cloth, then a neck, chin, and a mouth.

The sight of the mouth startles you so much you almost stop. It is set in a straight line, completely neutral in its emotion, but the sight of it is so undeniably alive. You’ve always imagined a rotting corpse inside the sarcophagus, shriveled and pale from years of being shut away. You wonder when the last time those lips smiled was. 

You don’t stop until his head is completely uncovered. The cloth falls to the floor, and the previously occupied hand brushes against soft curly hair as it lowers to join the other limply at your side. You’re so close that you can’t even process the structure of his entire face. All you can do is stare into those large, pale eyes. They’re not a menacing red as you’d always envisioned, nor are they the dark empty sockets that haunt your dreams. They are both light and deep, a shade somewhere in between blue and green. Unlike his mouth, they are not expressionless. There is some mixture of curiosity and analyzation within them, neither childlike nor critical. You suppose searching would we the best way to describe it. Searching for what exactly, you don’t know. 

“Um…” You trail off awkwardly, inwardly face palming at your first face-to-face words spoken to an ex-king. Only minutes ago you’d confessed your deepest insecurities to him and now you couldn’t even articulate a single word. 

But maybe it’s not so bad, because whatever he seems to be searching for is found after your mumbling. His eyes light up, crinkling at the edges. This suggests a smile, but you’re too entranced to look down and check. Heat burns behind your cheeks as his hand animates, caressing your flesh gently as skims along your shoulder and down your arm and takes gentle hold of your hand. He bends down, kneeling below you as if he’s some sort of Victorian gentleman. His lips hover over the back of your hand and it almost looks as if he’s going to kiss it, but he stops just shy and raises his head to look up at you instead. You can finally see his entire face from his position below you. The most endearing smile you’ve ever seen is plastered across his cheeks. He croaks out his words, but somehow they still manage to sound euphoric. Like a sigh of relief. 

“You have no idea how wonderful it is to finally meet you.” 

You smile awkwardly in response, too distracted by the thoughts racing through your head to form words. Well, it’s only one thought really that plays on repeat like a flashing alarm. It’s plastered in red print across your brain, a warning broadcasted at the very top of your consciousness.

‘ _ Oh shit,’  _ You think, more resigned than alarmed, ‘ _ Ahkmenrah is totally hot.’ _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
